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"What videos?"
Lizzie was so royally pissed off she was saying too much. She shouldn't have mentioned the videos. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She rushed to turn off the camera, took one look at the perplexed shock on Darcy's face and fled the office. She locked herself in a bathroom stall. He couldn't follow her there. He wouldn't. She could breathe, if she could only catch her breath. She put her head between her knees and forced herself to inhale and exhale more slowly. She was safe, but she knew that she could not spend the rest of her life in a public restroom. Unfortunately.
Darcy was in love with her? That was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. It wasn't possible. He disliked her; she'd have gone so far as to say he loathed her. He only ever looked at her to criticize her, look down on her family. But...
No. It just wasn't possible. Maybe he had a brain tumor. Brain tumors sometimes cause extreme shifts in behavior and personality. Maybe she should urge Fitz to get Darcy to a neurologist. That would be the responsible thing to do, the kind thing to do. Everything he'd done could be explained by a brain tumor. What a relief.
She crept back to the office, glad to find it empty. She retrieved her things and her camera and dashed for the elevator, intent on leaving the building without seeing anyone or having to speak to anyone or having to explain. She needed to be alone, to decompress and process what had happened. She'd rarely been so angry, so angry she could hit someone or bite him. What would Darcy have done if she'd just leaned over and bit his arm, punching her canines through his flesh? The entire time he'd been on camera with her, her fingers had itched for his throat, but he was probably too large to throttle properly, unless he cooperated by remaining passive and limp. Well, that was unlikely to ever happen. Darcy might be a lot of things, but passive was certainly not one of them.
She jabbed at the call button for the elevator repeatedly, peeking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, no one to ask her where she was going, or why she looked blotchy and yet paler than usual, almost feverish. Her hands were icy, but her cheeks burned with mortification. She couldn't believe she'd blurted out the existence of fifty-nine videos, most of them spent viciously mocking him. Was she insane? She must be insane. Maybe she was the one with a brain tumor. Someone somewhere needed to see a neurologist, of that she was certain. It was the one solid rock jutting above an ocean of uncertainty.
Where was the goddamned elevator? She stomped on the carpet and heard the click and whir of it approaching her floor at the very same moment she heard Mr. Collins coming down the hall behind her. He spotted her at the same moment the doors dinged open.
"Oh, Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet. I would very much like to discuss several issues relevant to your interests in online media--"
"Sorry. Maybe tomorrow," Lizzie called over her shoulder and darted into the elevator. She ran right into the warm, solid chest of someone who caught her right before she fell to the ground. The doors slid closed. Oh, God. The shirt. Two people could not be wearing that same red and black shirt, well, probably not both with suspenders. He was still gripping her upper arms because she'd full contact tackled him when all her attention was focused on avoiding Mr. Collins. Lizzie could not, would not look up. She couldn't move. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend it wasn't happening, but two more things happened at that moment forcing reality up her nose--it was totally happening.
It was apparent that he was breathing hard and fast as if he'd just run five miles at full tilt. She couldn't even think his name when he was this close. He was suddenly real and human, made of flesh and blood, knit together by nerves and feelings--in a way that he'd never been before. He'd always just been Darcy, barely human. And then the elevator gave a terrible shudder, groaned, and stopped with a sickening bounce. Lizzie would have landed on the floor if Darcy hadn't continued to keep her upright. She very much needed him to remove his hands from her person, but when she pulled back he didn't release her.
"Let go of me."
His fingers sprang open immediately, freeing her, but he held his arms out a moment too long, as if his hands would have pulled her back if they'd had autonomy. Lizzie stumbled away from him and into the corner as far from him as she could get in what was a very small elevator. He couldn't be more than six feet away. She covered her face with her hands and repeated that it was not happening over and over until her mantra synced with the shriek of the alarm, which was sounding from several floors down, but it didn't help. This was really happening.
Without removing her hands from her face she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't see you, or I never would have... Oh, God this probably isn't good for your condition."
"What condition?" His tone was clipped and angry. She was afraid to look at him, but she wasn't a coward, well not totally. She peered through her fingers. He was staring at her, frowning intently.
"It's the only thing that makes sense. I understand and it's OK, but you need to see a doctor." She was as close to hysterical as she'd ever been and she knew from hysterical. Her mother was pro at fits of all kinds.
"You're extremely pale. Are you going to pass out?" Darcy took a step toward her.
"No. Stay right there." She threw up her hands like a shield and pressed herself deeper into her corner, but there was nowhere to go. The chrome was cold against the exposed section of her back.
Over the alarm she heard the dulcet tones of Mr. Collins calling her name. He must have trotted down to the floor below where they were stuck, but the sound was muffled and she couldn't make out any of it. She risked a glance at Darcy to see if he'd understood. He had his head cocked, clearly listening.
"He says they've called the repair man, but he... I think he said the man died. They have to find someone else. This could take a while."
"How could you understand him?"
"I have excellent hearing."
"Congratulations. Your parents must be very proud." Oh, God. Had she really said that? She slapped her hand over her mouth before turning around and hiding her face in the corner. She knew his parents were deceased. Why did he bring out such meanness in her? "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It just slipped out."
"I understand. You're upset. We're stuck in an elevator and you hate me and I..." he cleared his throat and thankfully did not repeat himself.
That he loved her. Loved her. Brain tumor she reminded herself. Have compassion. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Does one usually consult a physician in these cases?" He almost sounded amused.
"Of course. Why wouldn't you? They might need to do surgery. It might help you. Buy you more time. There are treatments, chemotherapy." Somewhere in the back of her mind, maybe deep down in her lizard brain, she knew what she was saying was crazy talk, was entirely divorced from reality, but her mouth was no longer taking orders from her brain, or vice versa. She pressed her fingertips against the scratched metal wall and watched them turn white, released them and watched them turn pink again.
"Lizzie, what are you talking about? I don't have cancer. I'm in love with you." He sounded as ruffled and upset as she'd ever heard him, which was far from ruffled and upset for the average person, but his voice was uneven and sunk a bit lower.
"Stop saying that. It's not possible. You can't. You just can't."
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
Darcy gave one short sharp burst of self-mocking laughter. "You don't know how much I wish that were true right now."
That was the final straw, the last nail and her eyes welled up. She couldn't stop the tears. Things just kept getting worse. She was stuck in an elevator with a man who didn't want to be in love with her and whom she despised and now she was crying in front of him. Not sobbing, merely a wellspring of tears she couldn't control. She twisted back to face the corner and willed herself to stop, but her eyes were not obedient. After a moment or two, a perfectly pressed square of white linen was thrust over her shoulder without comment. Once she'd taken it, he retreated to his side of the small space. She blotted her face and blew her nose as discreetly as possible. When she felt control slip back over her like armor, she found she could grab the reins again. She steeled herself, turned and tried to hand him back the sodden handkerchief. Thanking him stiffly and formally.
He shook his head. "Please. Keep it."
"No," she said, very nearly stomping in frustration. "I don't want anything from you. Why can't you leave me alone?"
"I would be happy to if we weren't currently trapped in a very small space together with no means of egress."
She crumpled the handkerchief into a tight little ball, if only she could do the same to her feelings--compact them into a small, dense mass and stuff them somewhere out of the way, like her spleen, or cough them up like an owl pellet. Well, that was a disgusting thought. "Egress? What century is this? Who even speaks like that?"
"Obviously I do." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and took a deep breath. "Lizzie, I think you need to calm down. You're getting--"
"If you so much as mention the word hysterical I will not be held responsible for my actions," she threatened.
"I can't see what more you could possibly do to hurt me."
"Oh, please. Feel more sorry for yourself, Darcy. That's rich after all the awful things you've done to people I love."
Darcy's eyes snapped up and he was clearly fighting a great tide of fury. His jaw clicked with the effort to keep it closed. "Are you saying that you're in love with George Wickham?"
"Jane. I was talking about Jane." Her eyes overflowed again and she was a tiny bit glad she still had the square of wadded up linen. "But so what? What if I did love George?" She didn't, but she knew it would hurt him and she wanted to draw blood. It worked—maybe a little too well. His face flushed and it took him several long moments to master his tongue.
"You can't. You can't possibly love him."
"Why not? You're not in charge of my heart, Darcy." She put every ounce of derision into her words.
"I'm very well aware of that." He was so still, bizarrely still for someone so upset and common sense told her not to push him, not to trigger him and set him off. But her common sense wasn't in control--her rioting emotions were.
"Did you really think I could ever love you? After what you did to Jane and to George? Darcy, how could you be so blind?"
"Stop calling me that," he snapped. She blinked at him and he clarified. "Stop calling me Darcy."
"What am I supposed to call you? Your highness?" His rage was back in full force, which was good because it stopped her tears, when she was certain nothing else could have.
"William. God damn it. Call me William."
"No."
"Why?" Oddly he looked more hurt about that than anything else.
She massaged her temples. "It's too... I just can't. I won't." She sounded petulant now, like a child. This entire situation was beyond comprehension. She practically shouted, "You can't make me."
Darcy was thinking something through. He shook his head. "You can't possibly love him. Can't you see what he truly is? He's a user, a scoundrel. He has no sense of decency or honor. I thought you were smart enough to see that, but apparently you're easily taken in by a pretty package and a few compliments that flatter your vanity."
"He's a better man than you are." She had a vague sense that that might not be entirely true. George was not high on her list of favorite people at that moment.
"I think not." Darcy's fury burned cold and pale. Judging by the flutter of his hands and the extraneous movements he was making, his control was very close to cracking and she could not resist the urge to fracture him further, to break him. It was the worst feeling, the most terrible urge she'd ever had, the cruelest impulse. Lizzie might have been snarky and quick to judge, but she was very rarely cruel without reason or cause. She was very rarely cruel at all. Here she had every reason and cause and no way to stop herself. Once the inertia of her fury had been overcome she was an unstoppable force. It remained to be seen whether Darcy was an immovable object, but if so the resulting collision was bound to injure them both.
"You are hateful, arrogant, cold, unforgiving and cruel. How could I ever think you were the better man, Darcy?" She was taunting him. His hands balled into fists at his sides and he tried to force them open, but they curled up tight again after a moment, like tight whorls of fiddleheads. Lizzie went in for the kill. "You know what? I don't actually believe that you're capable of love. You don't have a heart."
Something within him lost its structural integrity and everything came crashing down. His iffy veneer of forced calm disintegrated into roiling, vibrating anger. He crossed the car in two steps and thrust her palm against his chest. She closed her eyes and tried not to feel him trembling beneath her fingers. She tried desperately to ignore the heat of his body seeping into her cold hand. Most of all she wanted to deny the frantic, driving heart beat she was afraid would sync with her own.
She stood at the very edge of something alien and new. Something she could almost, but not quite, reach. "Fine. You have an anatomical heart."
He dropped her hand and lurched back as if she'd slapped him. It wasn't satisfying enough to just wing him. She wanted to reach deep inside him and rip something out. It didn't occur to her that she already had.
"Sometimes I could cheerfully strangle you." Lizzie raised her hands in threat.
His mouth twisted in a farce of a smile. It was too furious and compressed to even be a smirk. "I'd like to see you try." He pulled himself up to his full height and she didn't think. She flew at him, but before she could grab him, or hit him, or even touch him, he slammed her back against the wall of the elevator, her hands pinned on either side of her head.
"Why are you pushing me, Lizzie?" His tone, the clench of his jaw, the sharpness in his gaze--all of it was a warning shot across her bow, oneshe let sail past unheeded.
"Because I can, Darcy." In that moment, when she thought she had all the power and control over what was happening, it slipped away from her. It was impossible to say who moved first, but they met in a crushing, bruising, brutal kiss. Lizzie poured every ounce of her hatred into it. She hadn't known that that was possible, that hate could spawn its own twisted power of attraction. The kiss became a war for domination, a battle of teeth and tongues flanked by devouring mouths. While it lasted she wasn't aware of anything else. The entire world fell away and all she wanted was to best him in this, force him to give her back the upper hand so she could use it to wreck him. She had no idea what Darcy was pouring into the kiss, but it was nearing violent, like a riptide too wide to swim out of. It dragged her further from shore.
She had no thoughts, no emotions, but every atom in her body vibrated with hunger. He did not resist, but pressed his full length against her, pinning her more firmly against the wall of the elevator. For a time they strained towards each other, as if they could burst through their clothing and sinews and compress themselves into one entity. He released her hands and slid his into her hair, one hand cradling the base of her skull and the other holding her jaw. He tried to gentle the kiss. She bit his lower lip and banged her fists against his shoulders.
He broke the kiss and took half a step back to put a few inches between them, but left his face pressed against her cheek. He tried to catch his breath and managed to say, "Not like this, Lizzie."
"It can't be any other way." If he wanted her this was how he could have her. She feared he'd pull away. She didn't want him to. She didn't want this to be easy for him. She had no idea why she was so hell bent on dragging him down with her, but she couldn't stop. There was nothing to grab onto on the way down. Only him. "This is all there is, but if you don't want me…" She lifted one shoulder as if to say, I can take you or leave you. Except her hands went off on their own, moving of their own volition. She ripped his shirt from his waistband and shoved her hands underneath, letting them rest against the flat of his abdomen, the muscles contracted pleasantly beneath her fingers. She'd never be able to consider him cold again--he was a furnace. The warmth felt surprisingly good. It was another warning she chose to ignore.
He didn't move, didn't say anything, had his eyes tightly closed.
Goading him obviously wasn't going to work. "William?" she said softly.
He opened his eyes and waited for her to speak, wary, but patient. His eyes were a deep blue, but she wasn't caught in them. She was hardly likely to fall into them and drown in their beauty.
"Please don't stop." She kept her voice soft, but not pleading. She knew instinctively that pleading would just drive him away more quickly.
He took her face in his hands again, searched her eyes, and said, "You can't want this. You don't want me."
"Why would I ask you to keep going if I didn't want you to? If I didn't want you."
"Because you're trying to punish me by giving me a twisted version of what I want." He trailed his fingertips softly up the sides of her face and buried his fingers in her hair. His touch was so sweet, maybe he did love her as much as he were capable. Not that it mattered.
"I actually don't care very much about what this is doing to you. I just want you to get me off." She gently slid one of his hands under her skirt, slowly so as not to frighten him with sudden movements. She kept eye contact the entire time and his expression flickered with confusion and a side order of pure, fiery lust. He wasn't the only one burning. She couldn't stand still, or relax. Every muscle in her body was locked and waiting, shaking with anticipation. It's not like she was prude, but she wasn't used to initiating things. It was empowering to lead him. He let her guide his hand up between her legs and press it against her wet heat. His Adam's apple jumped and his eyes drifted closed. He was breathing through his nose, fighting for control. His struggle spurred her on. "See? I do want you. You did that to me. You made me wet and aching." His fingers nudged the crotch of her underpants aside and stroked her gently, explored, but didn't delve. She almost let her head fall back against the chrome wall with a thunk and surrendered to the pleasure of his hand, but she wasn't finished with him yet. And these light caresses were not enough--it was like trying to scratch poison ivy with the end of a feather. She dragged his free hand to her breast, let go, and was pleased his hand remained there. Motionless, but there. He let out a shaky breath and leaned his forehead against hers.
"Are you sure?" His voice cracked. "I know you'll never care for me the way I care for you, but I don't want you to hate this, Lizzie."
"I can't make you any promises." She almost regretted that she couldn't promise, but she refused to soften toward him in any way, except physically, except with her body. She knew she could force him, or push him into it if she moved, if she moaned, but that felt too creepy. It would cross a line she knew she would hate herself for crossing. There was revenge and then there was wholesale destruction and they were markedly different to mete out. They remained still, almost frozen in place, except for the jerk and rattle of their breathing. He was thinking. He wanted to, he wanted her badly. He knew this was probably his only shot. The only way to have her and all he could ever have.
He lifted his gaze, his mind made up, and plunged into her with his fingers. He kissed her and she let him do it sweetly. Her lips still stung from earlier. She had no upper hand now and if this was a mistake she would make it gladly. It must be a form of insanity. Could they run out oxygen in the small space? Was it making them drunk on each other? She moved against his hand and saw sparks behind her closed lids like the after image of fireworks.
She knew nothing beyond where he touched her: the slow slide of his fingers inside her, his thumb pressed against her, sending pulses of pleasure outward. Thankfully any sounds she made were swallowed by his mouth against hers. Finally the hand cupping her breast twitched to life and she thought she'd scream if he took it away. He didn't. He deciphered the shape, weight, and fullness of her and then drew his fingers over the peak. She arched up into his hand. She thought she felt him smile against her mouth, but she didn't care that in trying to hurt him she was bringing him pleasure. She'd never lost herself in this act to this degree before, never been so wholly absorbed that she couldn't think. Unstoppable force colliding into unmovable object. They'd sort out the pieces later.
She wasn't content to let him have all the fun. She fumbled for the buttons of his shirt and popped two off trying to yank them undone. She didn't bother pushing the shirt off his shoulders; she had enough William Darcy real estate to explore. What was beneath his shirt startled her--this stiff, cold man was warm skinned, passionate, and surprisingly, heartrendingly beautiful once his carapace was stripped away. Another warning rose up in the back of her mind, a flare shot into the dark of her lust. She reached for the button on his pants.
He pulled back for a moment so he could look at her. "I... we should talk. I don't..."
Lizzie broke free of his hands and with a courage she was half-faking, grabbed her purse. She rifled through it until she found a small square wrapper. She handed it to him, reached under her dress and slid off her underwear. "No talking." She reached for his fly again and he let her pry it open and slip her hand inside. Her hands were small, like the rest of her and he was not a small man. She wondered if maybe this was a mistake simply because of the mechanics required. No, that was ridiculous. According to Lydia the bigger the better.
He dropped his head against the wall behind her, the side of his face pressed against her temple. His breath rasped like coarse sandpaper against fresh wood. She stroked him and he twitched. After a few seconds he batted away her hand.
"Too much?" she asked.
He nodded. She watched him rip open the foil wrapper with his teeth, which was the strangest and most unexpected thing to watch him do. He'd done this before. The reality of him as a sexual person caught up with her and slapped her. If he hadn't been pinning her in place she would have stumbled. He rolled on the condom and gripped her hips. "You're sure?"
"Yes." She slipped her hands the small of his back and pulled him against her to punctuate her consent.
He nudged her legs apart with one of his knees and lifted her off the ground, sliding her up the wall. As he started to push into her, her eyes fluttered shut.
"No," he whispered. "Look at me. Please."
She opened her eyes and held his gaze as he thrust all the way inside of her. Her weight and the pull of gravity seated him deeply. Pinned to the wall she couldn't move very much. She had no choice but to let him set the pace. Unlike his own, her hands were free to roam and she let them go where they would. They went everywhere they could, mapping every exposed bit of him. For one mad moment, it wasn't enough; too much of him was still clothed. She reminded herself that she still had her dress on and that was enough exposure.
He was moving too slowly, teasing her, trying to prolong it, and making it something tender. Well, as tender as fucking someone against the wall of an elevator could ever be. She dug her nails into his shoulders and used what limited motion she was capable of to spur him on and speed him up. She hooked one of her legs over his hip and he groaned. The angle, or maybe just the way their bodies fit together was perfect. Though if he'd just go a little faster she'd come apart in a gorgeous white flare. He seemed to understand, or maybe he was simply chasing his own pleasure. He snapped and rolled his hips faster and faster.
An electric, staticky feeling pooled inside of her until she though she'd burst from the pressure. And then she did. Perhaps she cried out. She wasn't sure, wasn't really aware of much beside the rush of intense ecstasy, traveling every nerve, pouring through her veins. The pulse in her ankles and wrists seemed to be coming from outside her body. Her peak pushed him towards his own and it only took a few more thrusts before he collapsed against her. He straightened up slightly, his movement sending a latent spark up her spine. He looked at her warily. He wanted to say something and his face was so open and unguarded that it slayed her. She could see it now. He truly was in love with her.
Mr. Collins chose that moment to shout something up the elevator shaft. They must have pried the external doors open because even Lizzie could hear him clear as a bell.
"Miss Bennet! Mr. Darcy! The repairman has arrived and has reported that he will be able to free you in a few minutes. I do hope that you are both all right."
Darcy quickly pulled away from Lizzie and tried to set his clothing to rights, which was a little difficult with the missing buttons. She'd crumpled the front of his shirt into creases and wrinkles that made him look like he'd slept in it. Lizzie had never seen him anything less than perfectly starched. She stepped back into her underwear, but they were twisted. She didn't have the nerve to take them off and fix them. She ran her fingers through her hair, but it was beyond repair.
They were dressed, but it was obvious that they'd been wrestling with each other for one reason or another. The small space smelled like sex. The elevator creaked and descended the last few feet. The doors slid open and they were free.
Lizzie impulsively grabbed his arm, but he remained three-quarters turned away from her. She said, "I didn't hate it."
He gave her one searching look and this time he was the one who fled. Charlotte's stood nervously next to Ricky. Charlotte swept her away before Ricky could pester her. She was grateful that for once Charlotte said nothing, asked nothing. Even though it was clear to anyone with eyes that something mind boggling had just happened. Lizzie wasn't sure she'd ever talk about it. There really weren't words. At least not at that precise moment. The ride home was silent. Charlotte didn't even turn on the radio. There was enough static in Lizzie's ears to drown it out though.
Back at Charlotte's apartment, she showered and curled up on the couch in her bathrobe. Not once did the last look on Darcy's face leave her thoughts.
